“Does that person want you?” she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the “person” was. He made a curious grimace—one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations—threw down his cue and followed me from the room. “Well, Jane?” he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he had shut. “If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two.” “What to do?—where to go?” “To see a sick lady who has sent for me.” “What sick lady?—where does she live?” “At Gateshead; in ——shire.” “-shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?” “Her name is Reed, sir—Mrs. Reed.” “Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate.” “It is his widow, sir.” “And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?” “Mr. Reed was my uncle—my mother’s brother.” “The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations.” “None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off.” “Why?” “Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me.”

Pause